


The Red Bear and the Songbird

by birb_birb_birb



Category: The Witcher (TV), 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia
Genre: And Jump The Handsome Witcher, And To Outrun His Past, Bard!Hawks, Canon Typical Violence, Enji Just Wants Money And To Be Left Alone, Enji Loves Horses More Than People, F/M, Hawks Wants to Adventure, M/M, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Mythical Racism Against Witchers, Spoiler alert: He can't, Witcher!AU, Witcher!Enji
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-12
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-20 11:01:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,599
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30003891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/birb_birb_birb/pseuds/birb_birb_birb
Summary: Witchers don't like people. They don't socialize. They don't wish for company, beyond their horse.Too bad pretty bards with irritating personalities can't take hints.
Relationships: Takami Keigo | Hawks/Todoroki Enji | Endeavor
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34





	1. To Strum a Tune

**Author's Note:**

> I've had this idea in my head for months, and I'm just now putting it to paper. Witcher!Enji lives in my mind rent free.

Drowners. It was always fucking drowners, these days. 

He’s specialized in fire for years, it’s the sign that comes the easiest to him. It dances on his fingertips, heeds his calls, strikes as sure as his sword. And yet, the world has seen fit to send him drowners as his main source of combat. 

If he believed in Destiny, in any form, he’s sure by now it’s out to fuck him. Perhaps he should leave Posada, or at least move away from the lakes, closer to the desert. Seems to be the only damn thing here. 

He’s done his job, however. Had finally managed to shove his sword firmly through slippery skin, and drag it down, cutting the drowner nearly in half. Save for it’s head. He needs that to drag back to the city council. He wants paid for this, after all. 

But before he has to deal with a city council, he wants a hot meal, and an ale. Also perhaps a bath, because the stink of lakewater and drowner permeates him. He’ll take whatever comes first, honestly. So long as it slakes one of his current desires, and it doesn’t run him too much coin. He really should turn the beast in first, but. His current patience level won’t tolerate ridiculous platitudes from weak men, who will only whisper about him the moment his back is turned. 

The first tavern he sees on the road makes him stop, dismounting his horse, giving her an affection scratch to the nose as he ties her up. He’ll save her a bit of whatever he gets, she’s earned it, carting him and a drowner’s head down a rocky road. She’s also the only tolerable creature he knows, which is enough to be going on with. 

He pushes into the tavern, dripping brackish water and oozing mud with every step. Won’t make anyone here fond of him, but he’s more than happy for that. So long as they’ll still give him service, he’d rather the rest stay far away. Exactly where he prefers humans.

He finds his way to an empty seat along the bar, wincing when he sits down and there’s an audible squish. He’ll need to air his leathers out soon, which means he should probably also invest in a room. He’d rather not be caught in the woods in nothing but breeches. Fighting anything with half his body exposed always ends up being a bitch to heal later. 

The barkeep does eventually find his way down to him, a frown pulling down his lips. But coin is coin, and he does have it. The man raises a blond eyebrow at him, tapping his fingers on the wood. “Go on, then. What do you want? Besides to drip on my floors.” He can appreciate the direct approach. 

He grunts, reaching down to dig out his coin purse. “Food, whatever you’ve got. An ale. And a room, once I’m done with the first two.” It gets him a nod, and he pushes over a few coins, and another few, when the barkeep just keeps looking. Man runs a hard sell, but he can’t be picky at the moment. 

“Fair enough. As you were, Witcher.” He replies, and he sighs. At least he hadn’t said it too loudly. He doesn’t want to attract attention. He just wants to eat, and pass the hell out. 

That is, if he can manage that, with the caterwauling of an overly enthusiastic bard ringing through the place. 

He’s never understood bards. Loud and bawdy, demanding attention wherever they go. Peacocks strutting just for the thrill of it. It’s ridiculous, and he would avoid them completely, if they didn’t haunt most taverns like particularly loud ghosts. 

This one is currently being booed, and it does make him smirk a bit, when he hears him squawk in indignation. The song he’d been strumming along to on his lute had been crude, and obviously not to the taste of his ‘patrons’. Perhaps this one lacked the ability to read a room. Whatever. At least he’s stopped singing. 

He’s halfway through his ale, waiting for his dinner, when the seat beside him suddenly becomes occupied. He doesn’t have to look, to know it’s the bard. The scent of perfumes wafts off of him, and he can see, just out of the corner of his eye, the bright blue color of his doublet. Only bards were that fancy, in a tavern on the outskirts of nowhere Posada. 

“Well, I’m sure I’ve never seen you here, my good man.” Comes out as a purr, and he’s already annoyed. He doesn’t respond, continuing on with his ale. “And I’d remember a figure as imposing as you.” He does finally turn his head with a weary sigh, eyebrows furrowed. 

The bard is as ostentatious as he knew he would be. His messy hair is swept back from his face, apparently the fashion these days for the rich folk. His eyes are sly and knowing, a light brown that borders on golden, with what seems to be a bit of kohl lining them. The doublet has embroidered stitching, and it’s snug about his waist, obviously tailored. 

He loathes him immediately, just on principle. 

“I’d prefer no one remember me.” He grumbles, scowling. The bard is brave, he’ll give him that. Not many men have the ability to weather his scowl, and simply smirk back. He watches the bard’s eyes move, trailing from the top of his head to his muddy boots. 

He can’t say many men so bluntly look him up, either. 

“You’re rather memorable, I fear. Your goal in life seems rather unattainable. If your frame doesn’t draw attention, that bright flame of hair certainly does.” It’s not the first time he’s heard it. Unlike many of his brethren, his hair hadn’t lost all color. He won’t complain, though. Means he’s less likely to be discovered for what he is, if someone doesn’t get a good look at his eyes, or the medallion on his chest. 

“Is there something you need, bard, or are you simply always irritating?” He grouses, turning back to his ale. If this conversation continues, and the bard seems determined it will, he needs far more ale. The barkeep must sense his irritation, because he comes back with another flagon, shooting the bard what looks to be a familiar glance of exasperation. 

“Can’t I simply be fascinated by a stranger?” He sets an elbow atop the bar, resting his chin in his hand, the smirk still curling his lips. He’s sure the pose is supposed to be enticing. He isn’t moved by it in the slightest. He starts in on his next ale, refusing to give the bard the response he’s so obviously seeking. He doesn’t indulge desperate songbirds. 

When he doesn’t respond to that, the bard huffs, the smirk dropping in favor of a pout. “Sparkling conversationalist, aren’t you?” He grumbles, but then his eyes narrow. He cocks his head to the side, and Christ, no. He knows that look. It’s the one that precedes someone recognizing what he is, maybe even /who/ he is. And he’d much rather not have that realization now. All he wanted was food and an ale, not a bard who can’t take a hint.

“Oh, oh! You’re him, aren’t you?” He grunts at the bard, his hand clenching on his thigh under the bar. “The Butcher of Blaviken. The Red Wolf. Enji of Rivia.” He breathes, leaning even closer, face mere inches from his own. He growls, turning his head to give the bard the harshest glare he can summon. 

“And what would you know, of the Butcher of Blaviken, boy?” He hisses, but the bard doesn’t flinch. On the contrary, his eyes go wide, and his smirk returns. He does sit back, however, and Enji will take what he can get. 

“I know that I hear tales of his brutality far and wide. Tales of his fierce glare, yes, that one, from here to Cintra. That he is both terrifying, and awe inspiring.” The last bit gets another pass of his eyes, and Enji wonders, idly, how well this bard could take a punch. “You know, it seems to me, that you could use an image change.” 

A what? He furrows his brows, and the bard nods, reaching over to pat his shoulder. Before shortly frowning, and scooting back, when his palm comes away vaguely muddied. Serves him right, for presuming to touch a man who is visibly covered in filth. “What are you even /on/ about?” 

“Your image! Everyone sees you as some sort of monster, but isn’t your job to rid towns of monsters? Seems rather heroic, if you ask me.” No. Absolutely not. His image is /just fine/. Heroes don’t get to hide, if they want. Heroes have expectations, and he doesn’t want them. And no one will accept a hero Witcher, anyway. 

He’s the monster people tell their children about at bedtime, to give them a scare. Not hero material. 

“I don’t need some upstart bard writing ballads of my ‘good deeds’. Take it somewhere else, /bother/ someone else. Anyone else.” A huff, and the bard pokes his shoulder, when Enji turns back to the bar, set to ignore him. He’s making it rather difficult, though. A difficult, flashy bastard. 

“I’ll have you know, I’m no upstart! I’m Keigo Takami, of the Takami house, though, I much prefer Hawks.” The last part is a purr, and Enji feels his eyes roll before he can stop them. “And if I pen an epic ballad of your deeds? You /will/ be a hero.” 

“Were you not listening to me, when I said I don’t need you?” He grumbles, taking another large pull of his ale. The bard, Hawks apparently, still isn’t put off. “You’d be a liability.” That gets him a grin, and a wag of a long, slender finger. 

“That’s where you’re wrong, sir. I’ve traveled all over the lands, singing for my supper, and I am /very/ capable.” Somehow, Enji very much doubts that. The man is slender, and the hand wagging by his face lacks any sort of rough skin, save for the callouses on the tips of his fingers from his lute. They aren’t the hands of a traveler, of a man capable of surviving in the wilds. 

And Enji isn’t in the business of babysitting. 

He tries, unsuccessfully, to shake the bard for the rest of the evening. But he stays glued to his side, chattering away about nonsense, asking his opinions on ballads, trying to wheedle stories of his ‘great deeds’ out of him. He finally growls at him to fuck off after he’s finished his dinner, and the barkeep tells him his room is ready. The bard tries to follow him even then, eyelashes fluttering as he suggests he can wash his back for him. Even Enji’s most fierce glare only gets a frustrated huff out of him, instead of the usual look of terror. 

The bard very obviously does not have any sense of self preservation. 

He does end up in a bath by himself, however, and he groans, sinking into the warmth of the water. It’s the best thing to happen to him today, the heat sinking into sore muscles. And now that he’s alone, he lets his shoulders sag, his face relax, and tries to take a moment thinking of nothing at all. It’s not particularly successful, but. It’s an attempt made. 

He stays in that bath for what feels like ages, using his sign to re-heat it when it starts to go chill. Improper use of it, of course, but he hardly cares. It’s not like he answers to anyone else, these days. Hasn’t in decades. Doesn’t plan on doing it again, if he can help it. When he finally deigns to leave the bath, Enji feels just the slightest bit lighter. The layer of dirt and grime is gone, his skin as clean as it’s been in ages. Even his hair is soft again, curling around his ears, flopping a bit into his eyes. He needs it cut, but he hasn’t bothered in ages. Easy enough to tie the fiddly bits at the front up with leather twine. 

He leaves it loose, however, as he climbs into the rickety bed at the side of the room. The hay it’s stuffed with is itchy, and it smells a bit musty. It’s better than his bedroll on top of rocks, however. And after having nothing but that for weeks, it feels like a luxury. Something a Witcher shouldn’t have, but fuck it. He takes it where he can. Especially when he’s nursing a long scratch down his side, healing quickly, but still with a sting. Another thing that damn bard had offered, to ‘nurse his wounds, tend to his needs’. Ridiculous. 

Enji is still thinking of damned blonde hair, and curving smirks, when he manages to drift off to sleep.

When he rolls from bed in the morning, the scratch is mostly gone, and he feels relatively well rested. It’s a vast improvement from yesterday, when he woke in the morning to cold air and the sound of goats screaming on a near-by farm. Enji arches his back, sighing when it makes the vertebrae pop, scrubbing a hand through his hair to work out any tangles. He can’t remember, the last time he’d felt this relaxed, getting up in the morning. 

So, he takes it slowly. Dresses in his own time, checks his leathers he’d left drying near the fireplace, sharpens and polishes his swords. The only thing pressing today is to deliver the drowner head to the city council, and it’s a short ride, from here. He’s not one for lazy days, for taking his time, but he does understand the need for them, from time to time. And he’s gone quite a while without. 

When Enji finally leaves his room, it’s mid-morning, sun already burning bright in the sky. He heads straight to the bar, grunting at the bar keep, who simply sets a plate of bacon in front of him. It’s appreciated, honestly, that he doesn’t have to ask. He simply eats, tossing a coin down as he moves for the door. 

It takes him an hour to reach the town. And then a half hour, to throw the head of the drowner down on the table, startling the council sitting around it. They’re disgusted, but they still give up the coin, which is all Enji truly cares about. He quickly adds it to his purse, before quickly marching out. He still hears the whispers, anyway. Damned Witcher senses never let him play ignorant, or not hear. 

The problem now is, however, that he needs more work. He doesn’t enjoy staying idle, he never has. And coin never stays long, no matter how much he earns. He has to feed himself, his horse, keep his weapons ready. But more than that, it’s his duty, to fight monsters. And after ignoring it for so long, he has more than enough to make up for. 

The best place to find work tends to be a tavern, so he swings into Endeavor’s saddle, and heads back the way he came. It’s rare to find a tavern owner who doesn’t find him abhorrent, so he’s willing to pop back in, inquire about any creature related issues that might plague that small place. It won’t yield as much coin as a bigger town would, but. He’s willing to do a good turn, occasionally. When humans prove themselves to be decent. 

When he re-enters the tavern, he almost turns right back out. The bard is back, of course, singing another bawdy song, getting booed by the crowd. It’s almost a mirror image of yesterday. At least the people seem consistently displeased with him, much like Enji himself. 

He doesn’t miss how sharp golden eyes find him, but he ignores it. He’s not here for the bard, for /Hawks/. He’s here to find work. He settles down at the bar again, and the barkeep is quicker today, to come to him. “Seems like you’ve gotten fond of this little place, Witcher.” He murmurs, a single eyebrow cocked. “Didn’t think your kind stayed around very long.” 

He taps a finger on the bar, and the other man is quick to fill an ale, and sit it down in front of Enji. “We don’t. But I need work. And taverns tend to have plenty of it.” He throws a coin down for the ale, taking a quick sip. “Know of any beasts that need slaying?” He gets a shrug in return, and Enji sighs. Maybe he should move onto the next town, after all. After he finishes his ale, of course. No use wasting it. 

He’s getting up, getting ready to leave, when the strumming of the lute stops. Shit. He needs to get out of here, /now/. Enji’s up and off his stool, slinging his bag over his shoulder, when a hand lands on his shoulder. It pushes him /down/ and back to sitting, mostly because he’s shocked that the bard was that damn bold. And it is the bard, because no one else here would /dare/. 

“And where are you going, Mr. Witcher?” Comes that honeyed voice, and Hawks steps into view, lips curved and smug. “You know, you’ve not told me, what you think of my songs.” He plops himself onto the barstool nearest Enji, bracing his chin in his hand, eyes squinted up with a bright grin. “Go on, then. Tell me. How do you find my serenading?” 

He could say a lot of things here. He could say that Hawks’ words are too fancy, for a crowd of country folk. He could say that his voice is pretty, but also grating, when he tries to do too much warbling. Instead, he goes with the one thing that /truly/ irks him about it. As a professional. 

“They’re not real. The monsters you sing about. Don’t exist.” It gets him a blink, then a furrow of brows, and Enji barely holds down on the smirk. “Shouldn’t try and write what you don’t know, bard.” 

“Well, you write a song about monsters, if you’re the expert.” He raises an eyebrow, and the bard huffs, throwing up his hands. “Oh, I forgot, Witchers wrote the book on monsters, the Monster’s Manual!” He tries to shush Hawks, but it’s too late, and he’s too loud. All the eyes in the bar turn to them, some wide and surprised, some narrowed and suspicious. 

Not exactly how he wanted everyone to find out there’s a Witcher, in their midst. 

The glare Enji sends Hawks at least makes the bard look sheepish, and he finally stands, pushing for the exit. But before he can reach it, there’s a cry of ‘wait! Please, Witcher!’. He turns, hands clenched at his sides, to see a man waving from the back of the tavern, harried and tired looking. He starts forward, the people between him and the man parting like book pages, to avoid being in a Witcher’s way. It’s easier to move, but he wishes they’d not known. Pushing through a crowd is preferable, to being treated like a leper. 

When he reaches the other man, he nods towards the back door, and they step outside. He’s wringing his hands in front of himself, eyes wide and scared. He knows the look. It’s a man with a problem, who’s on his last solution. Enji’s on the receiving end of it more than he’d like. 

“Please, Mister Witcher. Please. There’s a thing eatin’ my livestock, can’t quite catch it, and my farm’ll collapse, if I can’t.” The man scrambles for his pocket, pulling out a small bag, the sounds of coins clinking inside. “I can’t pay much, but I can pay.” The drowner had been a hefty bounty, he can afford to take on something smaller, this time. Plus, the things picking off livestock tend to be the easier things to kill. 

He takes the bag, stuffing it into his pocket, next to his coin purse. “Tell me about the creature, if you can.” He replies gruffly, arms crossed over his chest as the man begins to speak. 

The bard finds him again when he’s out front, leading Endeavor away from the tavern. He’s quick to catch up to him, jogging a bit, till they’re walking side by side. Enji shoots him a look, and Hawks grins, shoving his hands in his pockets. “What do you think you’re doing?” He rumbles, glaring when Hawks knocks their arms together. 

“I’m coming with you, of course! You criticised my songs of monsters, well, there’s only way to make them more accurate! Accompany a monster hunter, have some adventures.” When he scoffs, the bard only smirks, still keeping pace. “Plus, I said I’d rehab your image, didn’t I? Make a hero out of the big, scary Witcher man.” Enji simply grunts, but of course, Hawks is undeterred. “I could be your barker! Going along, singing songs of the heroic deeds of The Butcher of Blaviken!” 

Alright, that’s enough. Enji stops, Endeavor huffing and stomping the ground behind him. He glances over at Hawks, raising his hand to curl his fingers. “Come here.” He mutters, and when Hawks steps forward, he tests out one of the questions he had last night. 

Turns out, the bard takes a punch to the gut badly, but recovers quick. 

“Okay, you don’t like the name, let’s find a new one.” Hawks wheezes, a hand still pressed to his stomach. “What about...the Red Bear? That’s the Witcher thingy you come from, yes? The pendant on your chest is a bear, I just assumed.” 

“If you want to come along, shut up.” 

“Oh, of course! I can be a silent ride along, yes, ideal for hunting.” 

He has a feeling this isn’t going to end well.


	2. To Meet The King

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a run in, Enji tries to shake his bardly companion. 
> 
> It goes about as well as you expect.
> 
> ______________________________________________________________________

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Getting some background hints for Enji of Rivia this chapter, and Hawks learns a lesson about Elves.
> 
> ____________________________________________________________________________________________

Enji prides himself on his instincts. 

So the fact that he’s captured by a lizard creature, along with the mouthy bard? 

A failure all around, really. Taken by surprise in the desert, searching for a completely different creature, based on the babbling of a farmer. 

It takes him a moment to come back to consciousness after a rather rough blow to the head. There’s warmth at his back, and a low groan that sounds suspiciously like Hawks. He shouldn’t be relieved, that the bard isn’t dead. He is anyway. He tries to shift in the ropes binding him, but whoever tied them up knew what they were doing. Loose enough to drag them, too tight to manage to wriggle out. 

“This is where we escape.” Hawks mutters, voice trying to sound confident. Enji can hear the underlying uncertainty, though. There’s no way this bard has ever been captured, ever been this close to actual death. And it riles Enji’s temper, to think that he doesn’t even remotely understand the gravity of the situation. 

“No, this is where they kill us.” He hisses, still trying in vain to shift against his bindings. He needs to get out, needs his sword, can’t afford to die here. He hears Hawks mutter ‘who’s they?’, before he’s yelping from a foot to the face. Enji catches the same boot to the cheek, and he looks up, eyes narrowed. “Elves!” 

There’s two of them, and the one not viciously kicking and cursing at them picks up Hawks’ lute, and the bard finally starts wriggling at his back. “Hey, that’s my lute, put it down! Enji, do your Witchering thing, that’s an expensive instr-” 

“Shut up!” He growls in response, because Hawks blathering on is not going to be helpful here. Probably just piss the Elves off more. He’s taking another boot to the chest, grunting in pain, when Hawks decides he doesn’t want to listen to instructions. Of course he doesn’t. 

“Well, your speech is awfully rough, I only got about half of that.” Enji sees the Elf’s eyes narrow, and she’s laser focused on Hawks as she growls. “Humans shut up!” And that still doesn’t deter him. Hawks mutters out some half-ass Elvish, and she stops focusing on Enji even a little bit, to walk around him and threaten Hawks.

“Do you want to die right now?” 

Enji glares up at her, and something hot and fierce blooms in his chest, as she keeps staring at Hawks. “As opposed to later?” His tone is all gravel and fire, but she’s still not looking at him. Still absolutely furious, still glaring daggers at Hawks. It makes every hair on his body stand up, and later, he’ll sit around and wonder why. 

But now? He’s watching her raise her foot, going for another strike. There’s a strumming of strings in the background, and he feels Hawks stiffen up at his back. “No, please, not the lut-ugh!” Figures, he’s more concerned about his goddamn lute right now than his own life. Because the Elf isn’t playing nice, and he knows how thoroughly their kind hate humans. It’s with good cause, but at the moment, he’s not particularly concerned with cause. He’s concerned with staying alive. 

“Leave off, he’s just a bard!” That, at least, gets the attention back on him. She walks back around, and this time, she’s decided to use her fists. She strikes him once across the face, making him hiss, then again, and he can feel his lip split, feel blood dripping down his chin. He smirks. He can take a hit. He can take several hits, if it means she leaves off Hawks long enough for Enji to start planning how to get out of this. 

Or, he would plan, if she wasn’t continually hitting him, and expounding on the fact that she finds him disgusting. The knee to the face is particularly jarring, and he may or may not have his ears ringing as loudly as church bells, now. His head finally hangs down after that one, and he has to spit blood, as it floods his mouth. 

“You hide in your golden palaces, you beat a bound man and you can’t even look him in the eyes!” Hawks cries at his back, voice shaking, but very obviously angry. Stupid, brave bard. She’s going to kill him, at this rate, and Enji is in no fit state to stop her. 

“Oh, do you like my palace?” She gestures at the cave, dark and dank, before kneeling down by Enji, grabbing his chin in her hand. “Does it live up to your human tales of grandeur?” 

And this is where she’s made a mistake. Because the moment she comes close enough, he’s rearing back, headbutting her hard enough to send her sprawling on her ass, hissing and cursing. “Haha! Take that, pointy!” Hawks crows, and if he could elbow him harshly, he would. He can’t shut up for a damn moment. 

Her nose is bloody, and she’s coughing, and it seems like overkill. And despite the fact that she’s been beating the piss out of him, it gives him a flicker of concern. That shouldn’t have happened like that. The hit was hard, but not that hard. “Wa-wait, what’s wrong with her?” Hawks stammers, but Enji doesn’t have an answer. 

The lizard-like figure is moving back into the mouth of the cave, along with the other Elf returning. “She’s sick.” The creature replies, and the Elf and it come forward, supporting her between them, and reaching into a weathered looking pouch. 

“Oh, and who is this then?” 

“He’s Shigaraki, King of the Elves!” The creature responds, sounding much more enthusiastic than his companions seem. Shigaraki, apparently, sighs, eyes narrowed, and glares slightly at the creature. 

“Not a king by choice.” He rasps, digging something out of the pouch and tipping it into the woman’s mouth. She coughs again, blonde hair falling out of it’s ponytail, sticking to the sweat on her forehead. He might feel the slightest bit guilty, now, about headbutting her. But he absolutely won’t let on about it. Enji looks back at the creature, and it all makes sense. 

“You were stealing for them.” He murmurs, and the creature looks back at him now. He can only see a portion of it’s face, due to the ratty cloth it keeps over his mouth, but he can see the indignation in its eyes. 

“I felt for them, they were forced out of Dol Blathanna!” He hears Hawks scoff behind him, and he just barely resists the urge to groan. 

“Forced? Hah! No, they /chose/-” 

Shigaraki looks up, and his face is drawn and angry, as he looks at Hawks. “Do you know anyone who would choose to leave their home? And starve? No one does that.” The creature is still crouched next to the woman, but it glances back at Enji and Hawks briefly, eyes curved down in contemplation. 

“Toga, you said no one would get hurt.” It rasps, hands on its knees, looking just the slightest bit remorseful. Or, it seems remorseful to Enji. The creature hadn’t been acting in a vicious way, and obviously had autonomy. Even if he gets out of here, he won’t kill it. It’s against the code he’s set for himself, to kill a creature that can think and regret. 

“What’s two humans in the ground, compared to all the Elves that have died?” She hisses, eyes narrowed while she takes Enji and Hawks in, beaten and bloodied by her own hands. He feels a little less bad about knocking her on her ass, now. 

But he’s not a human. Hasn’t been a human in years, and he won’t let them treat him like one. 

“One human!” He barks, jaw clenched as he cracks his neck. She really had packed a punch, beating him up. “And you need to let him go.” The silver-haired Elf scoffs, crossing his arms over his chest, an eyebrow raised. 

“And let Posada know we’ve been stealing? No.” He walks forward, stopping to look down at Enji. “Humans will attack. Many will die, on /both/ sides.” His voice is rough, a bit bitter. Enji doesn’t begrudge him that bitterness, but he does loathe being tied up and beaten. 

“A lesser evil.” He rasps, meeting the Elf’s eyes. “No matter what you choose? You’ll come out bloody, and hating yourself.” An image of red and white hair flashes across his eyes, and he has to work hard, not to let it show on his face. He keeps his face neutral, under that gaze, meeting the glare head on. “Trust me.” 

“Well, that’s the problem.” The Elf kneels, sitting in front of Enji, reaching underneath the cloak he wears, most likely to get a weapon. “I can’t. This? Is necessary.” 

He understands that. Killing to protect your own? It’s just the nature of community. He’s not really been a part of a one since he left the stronghold, probably even before then, but the impulse still remains. He’d kill for one of his brethren, to this day. Even that bastard Yagi, if he needed it. 

“I understand. So long as you understand you won’t be long to follow me to death.” That gets a sarcastic laugh from The King of the Elves, and he shakes his head, eyes going hard. 

“Of course I won’t. Because the humans took all of our viable lands. They stole them, and they corrupted our magic, synthetic chaos that is theirs to use and warp.” 

A huff, and Enji glares, scowling. “Chaos is as it’s always been. Nothing about it /has changed/. Humans just adapted better to it.” 

“You say adapt, I say destroyed.” God, this argument is going in a damn circle. Enji’s head already hurts, thanks to Shigaraki’s companion, and he can feel Hawks shudder at his back. Really, it all comes back to one thing. 

“You are choosing to starve. You’re cutting off your ear to spite your face, on a greater scale.” 

“Do you think this is about pride?” Yes, yes he does. But he knows better than to interrupt now. “My ancestors worked with humans. We helped them build, established ourselves beside them. And they took it all from us. Murdered us, when we fought back, called it ‘The Great Cleansing’. They should call it what it is; digging mass graves for /everyone/ we Elves ever loved. And I refuse to bury anyone else.” 

There’s nothing he can say here. Because he’s /right/. The Witchers suffered similarly, at the hands of humans. When they became threatening, became something they couldn’t control, they were slaughtered, too. So few of them survived, and there’s a stab of sympathy in his chest, as he pictures the brothers he lost so long ago. 

“If I bring my people down from these mountains? We bow to humans. They’ll make slaves of us, torture half-blood children.” 

To Enji, the solution is simple. But he knows Shigaraki won’t like hearing it. 

“Then go somewhere /else/. Take your people, build a new home, get /stronger/. Show the humans you are /more/ than what they’ve done to you. /More/ than the tales they tell to demonize you.” 

“Like you, Witcher?” Ah, so they do know what he is. He’s only surprised that it took them this long to bring it up. Usually, he’s getting it flung in his face as an insult right from the beginning. 

“I’ve learned to live with them, work among them, so I can have a life.” Shigaraki has stopped, face drawn, eyes a mile away. Enji thinks that maybe he's getting through to him, before the woman jumps to her feet, fists clenched at her sides.

“Please, my king! There’s a whole new generation of Elves, ready to /fight/!” She cries, eyes alight with fierce determination. Enji will give it to her, she’s very passionate about this. With a mean right hook. “We can take back what’s /ours/.” And Shigaraki is back on his feet, drawing his dagger. 

Well, shit. 

Before he can lunge, however, the creature is up, staying his hand. “Wait!” Shigaraki hisses, eyes narrowed, attempting to jerk his arm back from the creature. Enji knows for a fact that it’s a tough customer, and that grip isn’t going anywhere without real effort. 

“Spinner, stand back! This doesn’t concern you.” The voice is vicious and hissed, and his and Hawks’ prospects don’t look good. 

Spinner, however, isn’t quite done. “The Witcher could have killed me, but he didn’t! He’s different, like us!” The King must not like what he hears, because he pushes the creature off, eyes still glaring and focused on Enji’s bloodied face. 

If this is it? He won’t go out a coward. 

Enji tilts his face up, exposing his neck. “Kill me, if you must. I’m ready. But the creature is right. Don’t call me human while you do.” Shigaraki steps closer, considering. The dagger is still clutched in his hand, and he steps to the side, begins to raise it over his head. This is it. This is where he dies. 

He hopes Endeavor manages to find someone to take care of her. He hopes that somewhere, Shouto, and Natuso, and even Rei, find a way to forgive him, if they can. That Touya has found peace. 

The strike never comes.

In the end, Shigaraki allows them to leave, with all the coin Enji had on him. He even gives Hawks his lute, since he’d broken his earlier to be a bastard. Perhaps he’d been more convincing than he thought, or maybe the lure of coin was strong. Either way, he’s more than happy to be back with his horse, riding away with his life. 

He’s even happy that he managed to get Hawks out as well. 

That lasts for all of a few minutes, before he wonders if he could get his coin back, if he let Shigaraki keep the bard. 

“That was an absolutely brilliant use of reverse psychology, you know?” Hawks starts in, hands shoved in his pockets and he walks a pace behind Enji riding Endeavor. “Kill me, I’m ready.” He growls, a vaguely insulting imitation of Enji’s voice. He glances back at him, a single red eyebrow raised. “And then that was it? You give them all the coin, and we’re on our merry way?”

Enji huffs, glancing forward again to let his eyes trace the way the path curves ahead. “Shigaraki’s lute not gift enough for you?” He rumbles, rolling his eyes when Hawks strums a few strings. They sound pretty enough, but he’s heard him perform. 

“She is pretty sexy, huh? Who knew the Elf King had need for such a lovely little lady?” He keeps absently strumming as he walks, and Enji debates whether he wants to kick Endeavor into a faster trot, just to keep him occupied running. 

“You know, I have respect for Shigaraki, having heard his story.” He glances over his shoulder again, gaze even and regarding Hawks with a bit of scrutiny. “He survived the Great Cleansing, and who knows? Maybe he’ll survive it all. Be reborn, that whole phoenix allegory.” He doesn’t strum, this time, but then Hawks begins to absently sing. 

“/Will the Elf King heed the Witcher’s entreat?/  
/Is history a wheel, doomed to repeat?/”

God, that’s pedantic. But Enji isn’t saying it, because he’s busy scouting ahead. 

“No, no that’s...that’s shit.” Hawks mutters, and Enji huffs slightly, the closest thing to a laugh he’s given in days. But laughing isn’t something he needs in his life, nor an annoying, chirping bard at his heels.

“This is where we part ways, bard. Permanently. I did say I don’t need company.” Hawks jogs up beside him, glaring up at him on his horse. 

“Absolutely not! I said I’d change the public’s tune about you, and I intend to do just that. At least let me try?” He shouldn’t fall for it. For big amber eyes, and tousled blond hair. Especially because what it’s attached to is so damn irritating. 

But instead of insisting he leaves, Enji simply huffs, turning away to gaze at the horizon. And out of the corner of his eye, he can see Hawks grin, bright and happy. 

He wishes it wasn’t quite so fetching. 

“I really need to work on that balland of yours.” The bard mumbles, hands back on the lute, strumming a little bit, face scrunched a bit in concentration. 

“/When a humble bard, graced a ride along,/  
/With Enji of Rivia, along came this...song/” 

God, that’s the beginning? Awful, absolutely awful. Enji tries his best, to tune the bard out as they go, the song weaving around him as he strums and walks. There comes a line about the Elf King and his army, followed by Enji saying a dramatic line that /never/ left his mouth. 

He brings Endeavor to a stop, and it takes a few steps, before Hawks turns to look at him. “That’s not how it happened.” He grunts, frowning when the bard simply gives him a shrug. “Where’s your newfound respect?” 

“Respect doesn’t make history.” Hawks replies, a small, wry smile curving his lips. “But the dramatic deeds of heroes do.” He turns, strumming at his lute, and singing as he goes down the road. It takes him a second, blinking a bit in disbelief, before he kicks Endeavor’s side lightly, spurring her on. 

“/Toss a coin to your Witcher  
/O Valley of Plenty/.” 

He loathes it already. 

Hawks plays it at the first pub they arrive at. The crowd goes wild, and Enji resigns himself to being the Red Bear for the rest of his days.

**Author's Note:**

> Come talk to me about endhawks on twitter
> 
> @pretty_birb


End file.
